


Day eight; Eight

by Poketrash48



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Money, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25779028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poketrash48/pseuds/Poketrash48
Summary: Money can be troublesome sometimes, can't it?
Kudos: 1
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	Day eight; Eight

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally gonna make this darker, but I thought against that idea last second and ended it a tiny bit nicer than I was originally going to.

Elliott was down to his last eight dollars, well, eight dollars and twenty eight cents to be exact. Between medical bills, the funeral, rent, and too many other bills to count, he had to live off of nothing but scraps from his job at the diner. He sat at his sad excuse for a kitchen table, papers strewn out all over the cracked and splitting wood, his last few dollars in a neat pile in front of him. He stared at the papers, his eyes as empty as his head.  


His neighbor’s door closing was what snapped him out of his numb trance. He shot out of his seat, the chair crashing to the ground. He stood over the table, eyes wide with shaking hands hovering over his face. He started laughing, quietly at first, but it didn’t take long for him to be cackling in his kitchen like a mad man. He laughed, tears streaming down his face, mind now overflowing with thoughts, thoughts he never wanted, thoughts he shouldn’t be having.  


A loud ‘bang’ on his wall followed by an angry voice yelling “shut the fuck up you sack of shit!” dulled his laugh to a sad chuckle. Tears fell on the table, dropping on his unpaid bills and his last dollars. With the swipe of his arm the table was cleared, paper and coins scattered across the floor. He slammed his back against the wall, slowly sliding down it until he hit the cold wooden floor. He hid his face between his knees, fingers tangled in his hair, and sobbed.  


He didn’t care if his neighbors heard him, he didn’t care if his neighbors yelled at him to shut up; he didn’t care. Someone knocked, no, pounded on his door. He didn’t care, they could break in and kill him for all he cared.  


“Go away.” He mumbled through the tears. The person at the door didn’t hear him, he knew that. “Leave me alone.” He mumbled again.  
The person at the door kept pounding their fists on it, Elliott still sitting on the ground sobbing.  


“Elliott, open the door! It’s Emera!” It was his boss, well, one of his bosses. The much, much nicer boss. “You forgot your phone at work so I brought it here for you!” She said through the door.  


“Emerea?” He said, wiping the tears from his face. He scrambled towards the door, towards the only person who cared about him.  
He swung open the door, face still puffy and red, his hair even more disheveled than normal. Emera’s eyes went wide at the sight of her worker. She put a hand against his face, Elliott not moving when she did.  


"What’s wrong, my boy?” She asked, concern etched on her face.  


Elliott stared at her with a pained expression before the tears started again. Emera pulled him into a hug, Elliott only cried harder in her arms.  


At least there was one person in his life that cared about him.


End file.
